Laura
by fwennie
Summary: You’re not going to kill me, said Dean, sweat prickling around his hairline despite the confidence he was hoping to portray. “I'd be dead now if that’s what you wanted.” hurt Dean, Sam to the rescue.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N**_ Ok, this is my first attempt at fanfic and I hope you like it. There are going to be loads of glaring errors you seasoned writers will pick up on but I've written this story because I love the characters and being ever so slightly obsessed I wanted my own little piece of them (in a good way, not the scary stalker way).

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.**

**Laura**

Chapter One

Dean was lying flat on his back when he realized that he was really cold and very, very uncomfortable. He couldn't believe that he'd actually managed to fall asleep; the bed was so hard, and where were the goddamn covers? He tried to move into a more comfortable position, to reach under his pillow and touch his knife, but his arms and legs didn't seem to want to work. He couldn't get his eyes open either, and a tiny flutter of panic settled in the bottom of his stomach. _Stay calm, relax,_ he told himself. He told his lungs to take a couple of deep breaths but his head started to throb painfully and he felt like he was going to vomit. _I'll never drink again_, he promised himself.

"Wake up," a voice said, sounding like the speaker was talking into a metal bucket. Dean stirred, not sure he recognised the owner of the voice. Maybe it was Sam. Maybe he'd fallen asleep in a doorway somewhere on his way home from a bar and Sam had found him; it wouldn't have been the first time. _Yeah,_ thought Dean, _that's it. I'm not in bed, I'm on the floor, so that's got to be the bar-keeper._ Dean wanted to tell the bar-keeper exactly what he thought of him, but he was fairly sure he only managed to mumble something incoherent.

"Wake up." The bar-keeper's voice sounded much more insistent this time and it was followed by a sharp poke to Dean's ribs. _Dude's poking me with a stick_, thought Dean. _His ass is so kicked, just as soon as I get up._

"Get him up," the bar-keeper said. _Great_, thought Dean, _that's exactly what I had in mind, but just give me a few more minutes._

A pair of hands took hold of Dean's jacket and t-shirt, and Dean's hands, which only moments before had been beyond his control, instinctively flew up to grab the wrists of whoever had hold of him. The hands let go of his clothing, and Dean, unable to bear his own weight, lost his grip on the wrists and fell back the few centimeters he had been raised, his arms and hands again useless at his sides. Sudden pain erupted in Dean's left side as someone's size nine connected with his ribs.

Dean gasped as the breath was knocked out of him, his hands weakly clutching his side as he rolled away from his attacker. Dean's eyes flicked open as adrenaline began to pump through his system—that is, his left eye opened, but the right decided to stay firmly shut. Dean briefly saw a terra cotta tiled floor before pain and nausea caused his vision to waver and dark spots appeared, forcing him to close his eye. _Oh come on, please don't let this be the men's room_, Dean thought. He felt hands pulling on his arm and flipping him over onto his back. The hands grabbed hold of his t-shirt again, ripping it in the process. Dean felt himself being pulled up from wherever he had been lying and onto his knees. The pain in his side flared as his torso straightened out and he grunted.

"Put him on the chair," a voice ordered. Dean felt himself being dumped unceremoniously into a hard backed chair. He seemed to have a little more movement in his arms, and attempted to grab the wrists again, without success. Dean wondered briefly who he'd managed to piss off this time, and if alcohol dissolved bones.

"Hold him in place, you idiot," said the voice as Dean began sliding back to the floor. Powerful hands grabbed him and Dean felt himself being hoisted back into a sitting position and held steady. The same large hands gripped the tops of Dean's arms and forced him back in the chair. He allowed his head to roll back onto the stomach of the man behind him. Dean was almost comfy and thought a quick sleep would do him good; the voices began to fade away.

-x-

The owner of the voice stared hard at Dean's bloody face. The wound over Dean's eye had almost stopped bleeding; the split lip was not worth worrying about, nor were the bruises. The man was vaguely troubled over the large bleeding lump on the back of Dean's head, but not troubled enough to staunch the blood. He needed Dean to answer some questions, and his partner, the gorilla in a suit, had almost brained him with his fists.

The man pursed his lips and turned to the sink behind him to draw a large glass of water, then turned and threw the contents at Dean's upturned face. The majority hit the unconscious man, and a smaller amount splashed over his face, splattering watery blood over the gorilla's already dirty brown suit. The gorilla raised his head and glowered at the man in front of him, his small eyes burning with malice.

"Wake up." The voice was more insistent this time. Dean stirred, his head jerking forward as he inhaled water, his mouth open gasping for air. The man smiled, content that Dean was at least responding.

Dean's head dropped forward onto his chest, his breathing coming easier now that the water was out of his nose. He could hear movement around him and his eyes flickered open, both of them this time, but the light was too bright and it hurt his head so he closed them again. A low groan escaped his lips.

"Dean." The voice sounded muffled in Dean's ears as his eyes opened again and he tried to focus on the man's legs and shoes in front of him. _Black suit and brown shoes, not a good mixture,_ Dean thought.

"Wake up," the voice said again, and a sharp slap stung the side of Dean's face. Dean tried to raise his head to see the speaker, but the room began to swim and his focus blurred, so he stopped trying and closed his eyes again. The voice also had hands, and one of them gripped Dean's hair and none too gently pulled his head up so that Dean was face to face with the man in front of him. Dean's eyes opened and slowly focused on the man standing in front of him.

"Where's Laura Stevens?" The speaker was a short stocky man. Dean thought he looked more like an accountant than a bar-keeper—an accountant with bad breath.

"Who?" gasped Dean, attempting to pull away from the odour. He was feeling nauseated enough without having to deal with dog breath.

"Man, you ever heard of breath mints?" Dean asked none too subtly. The accountant's lips almost disappeared; he didn't reply but his grip on Dean's hair tightened painfully and Dean's head was forced back so far that he was staring at the ceiling. For a fleeting moment Dean thought the accountant was actually trying to rip his head off.

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again, you piece of shit," snarled the accountant, breathing hard and fast as he tried and failed to control his temper. The accountant brought Dean's head back level with his own and spat into his face. The spittle ran down Dean's cheek.

Repulsed by the phlegm on his face, Dean didn't allow himself to flinch, but did allow his eyes to quickly move around to assess his situation. He was in an old kitchen that looked like it hadn't been modernised since the 1930's. There was a humming sound behind him which Dean assumed came from a refrigerator. The only lighting came from a low wattage light bulb dangling in the center of the room over a small wooden table. Dean was occupying the only chair. From his position he could see the back door and a window, which reflected the image of the gorilla/man behind him, his own pale face, and the back of the accountant who still gripped his hair. Dean was shocked by his own image, seeing blood running down his face and into his right eye. He became aware of a coppery taste in his mouth. At least he wasn't drunk; he had clearly been beaten and brought here, wherever here was.

"What the hell's going on?" Dean demanded and tried to move his hands up to his face. The gorilla's grip on Dean's arms tightened, forcing Dean harder into the chair.

"Dean," the accountant snapped, "your attention please." Dean stopped his attempt to reach his face and looked quizzically into the face of the deranged man.

"No tricks, no more time-wasting. Where is Laura Stevens?"

"Who's Laura Stevens?" asked Dean, stalling for time. He was confused; his mind was racing trying to remember why he was here, and who this man and Laura Stevens were.

The accountant let go of Dean's hair and took a step back. Dean managed to keep his head upright and kept the accountant in focus. His moss green eyes glared and a smirk flitted across his lips in defiance of the man in front of him. The man, white face contorted with rage, took several steps back from Dean and returned his glare. Dean didn't see the accountant's left hand as it shot forward and punched him hard across the left cheek and temple.

_Son of a bitch,_ thought Dean as his head snapped to the right. Waves of nausea swept over him and the black dots returned to obscure his vision.

"Enough," a new voice ordered. The accountant clutched his reddening knuckles in his right hand and turned toward the voice, his face still white but no longer contorted. The gorilla's grip on Dean's arms loosened and Dean rolled forward in the chair, his head almost touching his knees. The owner of the other voice moved closer, although still behind Dean and the gorilla.

"What have you found out? Anything?" asked the other voice.

"N-n-nothing yet, sir," stammered the accountant, suddenly feeling cold and clammy.

"What exactly do I pay you for, Dunhill?" his employer demanded. Dunhill said nothing. His employer actually hadn't paid him for anything yet, as his contract clearly stated _find Laura, get paid._ Dunhill didn't want to irritate his golden goose by pointing out that fact.

"Get the information," ordered his employer. "Get it today or your contract will be terminated."

Dunhill watched as his employer stalked out of the room. He detested the old man, but this job was his ticket out of the back-street office where his private investigation office was based. It was his ticket away from alimony payments to his ex-wife, from the demanding eighteen-year-old son who used him as a private bank, from his landlord who was threatening to evict him next week, and from the endless dead end work of serving legal documents. All Dunhill had to do was find Laura Stevens and pick up a fat paycheck. All he needed was for the idiot in the chair in front of him to tell him where Laura was. Dunhill glanced up at the gorilla, his cousin Seth Black, who was grinning at him like the cat that got the cream. At that moment he would have liked to cause Black a great deal of pain.

Dunhill stared without compassion the semi-conscious man who was still slumped forward in his seat. He had decided this man was going to cooperate, whatever the cost. Dunhill motioned Black to pull Dean back up into an upright position.

Dean had been listening to the conversation between the men. Dunhill, he thought, that name was familiar. Dean struggled trying to remember something, something important, a matter of life and death concerning Dunhill. His brain struggled to put his memories into order; his thoughts were so sluggish it was like wading through treacle.

Dean felt Black's hands grip his arms and knew that he was about to be moved. If he could only get gorilla man off balance he might stand a chance. Dean knew that he could move faster than the gorilla and Dunhill; he was at least fifteen years younger. All he needed was a chance, a turn of events to his advantage. Dean felt himself being pulled back into an upright position, and as he reached the back of the chair, he summoned up all his strength and kicked hard at the floor, sending himself, the chair and the gorilla tumbling backward. Dean landed squarely on top of Black, and made sure that his elbows dug deep into Black's midriff, leaving him temporarily winded. Dean rolled to his knees, ready to sprint out of the kitchen, but felt the unmistakable coldness of a steel barrel pressed into the back of his neck.

"If you're quite finished, Dean, we really do have matters to discuss," said Dunhill. He sounded unfazed by the event, but the hand holding the gun on Dean's neck shook and his knuckles were turning white. Black grunted and rubbed his stomach where Dean's elbows had sunk into his gut, then rolled onto his hands and knees to grab the table in order to pull himself up from the floor.

"Get off the floor, you damn idiot," said Dunhill, glaring in Black's direction. "And get him back on the chair." Dunhill's voice began to rise in pitch.

Black heaved himself to his feet, breathing heavily. With one hand he turned the chair upright and with the other he pulled Dean by the collar of his jacket and slammed him back into his former sitting position far harder than was necessary. Dean sat as still as he could. His move had been too soon and he had inadvertently shown his adversaries that he was in a weakened state. As soon as he had hit the floor, he'd known that his legs wouldn't carry him, known he didn't have the strength to escape. Dean tried to slow his breathing. He hoped that the nausea would subside, hoped that the pain in his head would decrease, and most of all hoped that his brother would show up.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** – _A huge thank you to Katerina17 who has agreed to beta Laura and has done a fantastic job. Chapter One has been beta'd and has been updated, so if you could spare a few minutes to re-read it I would be obliged_.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.**

Chapter Two

Laura hid in the crawlspace between the inner and outer walls of her home and looked through the grill at the events taking place in the kitchen.

Laura had seen two of the men in the kitchen before, the ones her daddy called Dunhill and Black, and she knew they weren't good men. She hadn't listened to their conversations, because Mommy told her it was rude to eavesdrop, but Mommy hadn't said that she couldn't watch. Laura, however, couldn't help overhearing her daddy that night when he'd turned to Dunhill and said, "You were followed. The one called Dean Winchester is outside now."

Laura had watched as the big man called Black moved with surprising speed for his size to the door at the side of the kitchen, which lead outside. He had vanished into the night. A few seconds later the same door had flown back open, and a man Laura hadn't seen before was thrown roughly back into the kitchen. The man Laura assumed was Dean had slid across the kitchen floor and slammed into the wall, the wall she was hiding behind. Laura had held her breath; he was very close to her, and she'd prayed that he wouldn't hear her.

The man had gotten up off the floor almost immediately, his arms outstretched. He had tried to talk to the men, but the one called Black had walked toward him, his hands clenched into fists, and had begun to hit the younger man in the face and torso. The man had fought back really well until Black had spun him face first into a wall and a lot of blood had started to run down the man's face and he had fallen over. The man was getting up off the floor when Black hit him very hard on the back of the head and he fell face forward onto the ground and didn't get back up. Laura had thought the man called Dean would certainly be killed, but the one called Dunhill had ordered Black to stop.

Laura had watched as Dunhill went up to the man on the floor, used his feet to flip him onto his back, then searched his pockets. She had seen Dunhill take a number of items from inside the man's jacket and jeans, examine them, and then put them into the table. Some of the things Laura hadn't recognized, but she had seen Dunhill take a knife from inside the man's boot. She thought that maybe the man might not be a good person either.

Laura had seen other men in the kitchen before, and she knew what was going to happen. She had seen her daddy do such terrible things many times.

Laura hated her daddy. She was a good girl, and good girls ought to love their parents, but her daddy was a bad man and he'd hurt her and her mommy. She remembered the night her mommy died, how her mommy had screamed and told Laura to hide and how Laura had cried and cried until she'd fallen asleep in the crawlspace. Laura knew her daddy wanted to hurt her too, so she stayed between the walls, and she stayed safe.

Laura watched as Dunhill ordered Black to pick Dean up, watched as Dunhill questioned Dean about her. Why would Dunhill do that? She was only twelve years old. What did she know about anything? Laura started to cry silently, knowing she must be very, very quiet. Laura wanted her mommy.

-x-

"This is the last time I'll ask you," said Dunhill, his face inches away from Dean's, his lips peeled back, spittle flying. "Where's Laura?"

Dean searched Dunhill's face, trying to gauge from his expression what he was likely to do next. Dunhill's face was white, his hands flexed into fists and his breathing was fast and shallow, he was barely in control. Ok thought Dean, punch me again, I can take it, just get it out of your system.

"Which part of 'I don't know her' don't you understand, dog breath?" Dean retorted angrily, purposely goading Dunhill. He figured he'd taken just about enough crap for one evening.

Dunhill was close enough for Dean to hear his breath catch in his throat. Dean steeled himself, knowing a punch would be coming his direction soon. Dean allowed his head to roll with the punch that hit the side of his mouth; it wasn't too bad but it re-opened the split lip he had received earlier that evening. Dean turned his head back to face Dunhill and licked the blood from his battered lip. The half grin on his face issued a new silent challenge.

"Where is she, you bastard?" Dunhill almost screamed the question into Dean's face. Dean's eyes glittered dangerously and he raised his eyebrows in response. Dunhill stepped back, his face like thunder. Dunhill tore his gaze from Dean and glanced at his watch. His hands trembling, he reached into his jacket pocket to withdraw the gun he had previously held to the back of Dean's neck.

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry," said Dean quickly. He didn't like the way Dunhill was staring at the gun and then back at him. Black, who still held Dean's arms in a vice grip, was tightening it minute by minute.

A fresh surge of adrenaline shot through Dean's system, no doubt assisted by the appearance of the firearm, and the fog that had been crippling his brain lifted.

"Wait, you don't understand why I'm here," Dean said quickly, the words almost coming out jumbled.

"So now you want to talk; what a surprise," said Dunhill sarcastically. "Why exactly are you here?"

"I'm here to save your ass," replied Dean.

Dunhill was taken aback, surprised by Dean's response. "What?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"You've gotta get out of here, man; you're in deep crap," said Dean rapidly, hoping to keep Dunhill talking.

_This isn't making sense,_ thought Dunhill. His employer had told him that the man in front of him was holding Laura against her will. That this man was part of a cult that preyed on young girls, and that he was now blackmailing Dunhill's employer for her return.

"What do you mean?"

"Your employer, he's not what you think he is," Dean said. "The contract you signed, it runs out tonight at midnight, right?" Dean's eyebrows arched, as if to highlight his statement.

"That's none of your business," responded Dunhill angrily. This wasn't right; he was supposed to be the one asking the questions.

"You've made a deal with a demon," said Dean earnestly.

Dunhill shook his head and gave a half laugh and snort; the man in front of him was clearly very sick, maybe even a psychopath or sociopath, whatever the difference was. Dunhill hadn't expected this; he'd dealt with all kinds of human debris, but this was something new. This case was about a straightforward kidnapping, if that was possible. That's what his employer had told him.

"You're dinner," said Dean, his brain finally firing on all cylinders.

-x-

"Dunhill," said a voice from the hallway. Dunhill spun around to face his employer. As usual, the cold, clammy feeling seeped into Dunhill's skin and bones.

"It's nearly midnight. Your contract expires soon. I want my daughter, and I want her now," demanded his employer.

Dean craned his neck, trying to see the individual behind him, but the employer remained in shadow.

"Oh, and if something unfortunate happens to him, I'll pay double," said the employer coldly .

Dunhill's skin prickled. There was little doubt in his mind what his employer meant by that last statement, but he wasn't a killer. He was, however, very desperate. This piece of scum in front of him meant nothing. Dunhill didn't know him, and he doubted the lowlife would be missed; would it matter if he died? And anyway, how could he let him go now? He knew their names. _Black will do it,_ Dunhill thought, _if it comes down to it. _ He'd sorted out this kind of 'problem' before.

Dunhill let out a heavy sigh, reached into his jacket pocket to bring out two narrow strips of plastic, and moved towards the man in the chair.

Dean struggled against Black's grip, aware that Dunhill intended to use the plastic handcuffs to bind him to the chair. Dunhill's hand trembled as he raised the gun and pressed it firmly against Dean's forehead. With the other hand he passed the cuffs to Black, who quickly set about strapping Dean's wrists to the arms of the chair. Black moved around to stand behind Dunhill, but slightly to the side so he could see Dean. Black stood with this arms folded, leaning against the sink, clearly enjoying the scene playing out in front of him.

"You're not going to kill me," said Dean, sweat prickling around his hairline despite the confidence he was hoping to portray. "I'd be dead now if that's what you wanted."

"Why can't you just tell me where Laura is?" Dunhill said in a choked voice, and tapped the gun lightly on Dean's forehead, punctuating each word.

"I swear, I don't know Laura," Dean responded, his heart racing. Dean's eyes didn't leave Dunhill's face. Dunhill looked like he was about to cry.

"Tell me where she is, Dean?" Dunhill asked so softly that Dean could hardly hear him.

Dean shook his head. Dunhill wasn't listening to him; actually, Dunhill wasn't even looking at him anymore. His eyes appeared glazed over, unfocused. Dunhill moved the gun from Dean's forehead and ran it gently down, past his eye, cheek and throat, over his chest until it rested against his bruised ribs. Dean's eyes still remained fixed on the man standing in front of him. He didn't like what he saw: determination mixed with desperation, never a good combination. Dean realized he was holding his breath, almost as if he was willing time to stop.

The shot exploded from the small caliber handgun, its sound magnified in the confines of the small room. Dean gasped in pain and disbelief. He'd been shot! The crazy bastard had actually shot him! Dean looked down and saw a dark stain spreading across the left side of his his t-shirt. Dunhill hadn't aimed the bullet into Dean's body; he had deliberately angled the muzzle so the bullet would graze and burn against Dean's ribs.

Dean had to do something. He wasn't going to sit and let Dunhill shoot him like a dog. Dean lunged forwards at Dunhill, who was standing an arm's-length away. His head caught Dunhill squarely in the chest and they both crashed to the floor. Unfortunately for Dean, the chair didn't break in the fall, and once again he felt himself being manhandled back upright. Black glowered at Dean before turning to help Dunhill from the floor.

Dunhill, breathing heavily, looked down at his clothing and started to meticulously brush the dust from his jacket and pants. Black turned back to Dean, scowled, and brought his fist down hard on the top of Dean's head, as though he was trying to pile-drive Dean into the floor. Dean felt something crack in his neck as his spine took the brunt of the impact, and a tingling sensation ran across his shoulders and down his arms. Strangely, the blow to the head didn't hurt too much, but a migraine-like pain flared almost instantly and the nausea returned.

"Tell me where she is, Dean?" Dunhill was standing in front him again, as though nothing had happened.

Dean raised his head to look at Dunhill, but as soon as he did, an excruciating pain shot through his neck and shoulders and down his arms, making his breath whistle over his teeth as he drew air in sharply. _This is so not good,_ thought Dean.

Dunhill returned the barrel of the gun to Dean's left side, pressing hard over the steadily bleeding wound. Dean's breath caught in his throat as pain flared from the wound, and from the bruising left by the kick in the ribs he'd received earlier that evening.

"You sadistic son of a bitch!" gasped Dean, his voice raw with pain. Dean jerked away from the barrel, but Dunhill shadowed his movement and dug the weapon back into his wounded side.

"Tell me where, Dean?" whispered Dunhill, this time tapping the raw wound with the muzzle of the gun.

Each tap fired pain receptors in Dean's brain. The sweat that had beaded along his hairline now coursed down the sides of his face and down his back. Dean shivered involuntarily and closed his eyes. Dunhill stopped and raised the muzzle of the gun off the wound. Dean's eyes shot open; the lack of pain being inflicted was somehow worrying in its absence. Dean gazed at Dunhill in disbelief as he lay the muzzle against Dean's ribs for the second time, this time a few centimeters above the first wound.

"Tell me, Dean?" Whispered Dunhill, now staring intently into Dean's eyes. Dean swallowed hard. He wanted to tell Dunhill he was making the biggest mistake of his life, but the words failed to form.

Again the kitchen reverberated from the sound of the small caliber weapon as a second bullet tore across Dean's ribs, a little deeper this time. A cry of agony escaped Dean's lips, and his body lurched to the left.

"I can't help you now," said Dunhill resignedly. "It's Black's turn." With that he turned his back on Dean and moved out of his eyesight.

Dean was in shock. Blood ran from the stinging wounds on his side, and his brain wouldn't function. For the first time he could remember he felt totally helpless. _Sam, where the hell are you? _ Dean thought furiously. Within seconds, Dunhill returned holding a length of rope, which he dangled in front of Dean's blurring vision.

"Wait, wait, man, this isn't necessary," Dean pleaded, hardly able to speak from the panic that settled deep within his stomach.

Dunhill stood before Dean, the rope hanging loose in his hand, a grim expression on his face. He stepped forward so that his knees were against Dean's and draped the rope around Dean's neck. Black moved in and grabbed the ends of the rope. A maniacal grin spread across his face as he started to wind the rope around and around itself, tightening it around Dean's neck...throttling him.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **Massive thank to Katrerina17 for being my beta, she's totally turned this into something you might like to read...Kudo's where it's due.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.**

Chapter 3

**One hour earlier**

It was late evening and the street was poorly lit. The Impala, its headlights off, slowed to a standstill in a dark patch between the streetlights, about 10 meters behind the old Ford it had been following. The Impala's occupants watched as two men got out of the Ford and walked around to the rear of the old property.

"No doubt that this is the place. The EMF is going bananas," said Sam, peering through the gloom at the needle on the monitor, which was swinging back and forth at an alarming rate.

"You ready to go demon hunting?" asked Dean eagerly, rubbing his hands together.

"I was hoping to hear from Bobby. We hardly know what we're dealing with here."

"We know it's a demon, Sam," said Dean, raising his eyebrows. "We know it's been taking people on this date for the last twenty years, and we've just watched meals on wheels arrive. What else is there to know?"

Dean got out of the car without waiting for a response and moved to the back, opening the secret compartment under the truck. Sam sighed. Sometimes his brother was such a jerk. He grabbed the handle and opened the car door harder than was necessary. His long legs quickly took him to the trunk of the car, where he resignedly joined his brother to help load the paraphernalia required for the evening's work. Dean shouldered the loaded bag, and flashlights in hand, the brothers moved silently into the shadows and headed toward the building. They hadn't gone more than ten steps when Sam felt his cell phone vibrating in his jacket pocket. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder to stop him.

"It's Bobby," said Sam glancing at the caller ID. "I'd better take it." Sam turned and answered the call as he slowly moved away from his brother, conscious of being overheard by anyone in the building.

"Sam, I've managed to get some more information for you," said Bobby, his voice almost muffled by the damp evening air.

"I'm listening."

"I've trawled through local papers and checked the police missing persons reports. It's worse than we thought, Sam. It looks like people have been going missing for at least fifty years."

"And no one's gotten suspicious about a pattern?"

"You know what it's like, Sam. Unless you're looking for the pieces…"

Sam stopped walking and looked over his shoulder at Dean, who, although partially concealed by shadows, was clearly agitated at having to wait.

"Better go, Bobby, Dean's getting antsy." Sam held up his hand to indicate that Dean should continue to wait.

"Wait, Sam, there's more..."

Dean was bored. Sam was deep in conversation with Bobby and it didn't look like they would be finished anytime soon. Dean raised his hand to get Sam's attention, and when his brother looked toward him, Dean tapped his watch.

"Wait," Sam hissed at his brother. Dean placed his hands behind his ears and shook his head, doing the 'I can't hear you' gesture, and started walking backward, away from his brother and toward the house.

"Sam, Sam are you listening?"

"Yeah, Bobby," said Sam, beginning to follow Dean.

"This demon, it's not behaving...um...naturally."

"No!" said Sam, rolling his eyes.

"Wait, that didn't come out right. The demon appears to be bound to the house somehow, and I haven't been able to figure it out."

"Did you get any information about the owner of the property?"

Sam watched as Dean slipped farther away, finally disappearing into the undergrowth within the grounds of the building. _Damn it Dean, _thought Sam angrily, _why can't you just wait?_

"No, not yet; I'm still working on that. Sam, you're gonna have to perform an unbinding incantation. Like I said, there's something holding that demon in that house, and unless it's released you're never gonna be able to get rid of it…" Bobby let the sentence dwindle.

"That's gonna take at least 20 minutes to perform," said Sam, anxious about the speed at which the night was passing.

"Better get started, then."

Sam closed his cell phone and returned to the secret compartment in the trunk of the car. Sam extracted his father's journal and an incense burner, too busy now to think about Dean's whereabouts, but knowing Dean wouldn't do anything to put either of them in danger. Sam approached the outskirts of the property, lit the incense and began to read the Latin incantation aloud.

Walking very slowly, the smell of incense permeating the damp air, Sam made his way around the boundary. Occasionally Sam paused to listen for sounds that might indicate he had been discovered, or sounds from his brother, but hearing nothing other than the usual nighttime noises, he carried on. On his second traverse Sam noticed Dean's bag in the undergrowth at the rear of the property. Becoming more anxious over his brother's whereabouts, he unconsciously began to walk faster.

Finally the incantation was finished. Sam placed his father's journal securely in his jacket pocket, doused the incense burner, and headed cautiously toward the abandoned bag at the rear of the property. For the first time, Sam got a proper look at the old building. It had been constructed at the turn of the last century, and from the look of the outside, it hadn't been modernised. Halfway down the side Sam stopped and listened. Was that a gunshot?

His heart pounding hard in his chest, Sam hurried the last few meters to the bag that lay open in the undergrowth and grabbed the shotgun with shaking hands. This time Sam was certain it was a gunshot he heard emanating from the building behind him. His heart felt like it was trying to burst out of his chest and his breath chugged in and out in panic. _Breathe deeply,_ Sam told himself, attempting to calm himself down. _In, out, in, out._

Shotgun now held steady in his hands, Sam double-checked that there was a cartridge in the chamber and, crouching low, headed toward the rear of the house. Sam could hear voices, and relief washed over him when one of them was unmistakably Dean's. Sam's relief was short-lived, however, because risking a peek in the window brought him face to face with the vision of Dean being strangled. Without further thought, Sam leaped up the three wooden steps to the back door, and kicking down the door, he burst into the kitchen, his shotgun leveled at the man trying to kill his brother.

-x-

Dunhill was surprised; his jaw dropped and his mouth remained open as he gaped at the tall man who had seemingly appeared out of thin air in front of him. Matters were getting out of hand; the man in the chair wasn't cooperating, he was loosing his control over the situation, and he only had minutes left before he lost his contract. Now, another madman was in the kitchen, but this one had a weapon.

Dunhill did the only sensible thing he could think of: he dropped the gun and ran into the darkness of the house. Black, however, was incensed by the interruption, and letting out a bellow, he dropped the rope and launched himself at Sam. Without hesitation, Sam pulled the trigger. The rock salt cartridge shot from the barrel in a thunderous roar, hitting Black in the midriff. Black appeared to fold in two and jack-knifed onto the floor. Sam moved toward Black's prone figure, and seeing that he was still conscious, hit him hard between the eyes with the butt of the gun to knock him out.

Dean, now free to breathe, drew in a lungful of air and promptly began to cough and gag.

"Dean, you ok, dude?" Sam moved quickly to his brother's side.

"Yeah," said Dean hoarsely as soon as his coughing fit subsided. He resisted the urge to look up at his brother. The pain in his neck and shoulders didn't seem too bad if he kept still. "Just got a sore throat," he croaked, attempting to crack a poor joke.

"I heard shots. God Dean, what happened?" asked Sam, inhaling sharply when he saw the blood covering the right side of his brother's face. Sam crouched down in front of Dean to examine his face closely.

"Dunhill sort of shot me," Dean responded, smiling weakly at his brother.

"What do you mean 'sort of shot you'?" asked Sam. He stood back upright, his eyes roaming quickly over his brother. Sam's eyes widened with alarm when they fixed on the dark stain spreading on his brother's left side.

"It's just a scratch, Sam, nothing serious."

"Let me see," said Sam, concern spreading over his face.

"Sam please, the cuffs." Dean indicated with his eyes toward his wrists; he didn't want to move his head any more than he had to. Sam flushed as he pulled out his pocket knife, bent over, and quickly cut through the straps holding his brother.

"Where's Dunhill?" asked Dean, gingerly bringing his arms to the front of his body to massage his wrists and rub the blood supply back into his hands. Wincing at the pain, he moved his jacket to cover his blood-stained side from prying eyes. He deliberately refused to look at Sam. Nevertheless, Dean could feel Sam's eyes boring into him.

"Ran into the hallway. I didn't see where he went after that since I was busy with your friend here," said Sam, nodding his head toward Black's unconscious form. "Dean, don't try to distract me. You're hurt, now let me help."

Dean tentatively raised his arm. The movement sent pain shooting across his chest and down his other arm. Grimacing with pain, Dean glanced at his watch.

"You can take care of me later, Sam, ok? It's almost midnight and we don't have time for this right now."

Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother, who was staring at him inquisitively. Dean dropped his eyes and focused on something uninteresting on the floor. He didn't want his eyes to betray the pain his body felt.

Sam knew damn well that Dean was hiding his pain as usual, but he also realized that there was no point badgering him; it would only end in an argument. Whether Sam liked it or not, Dean was right; they really didn't have time for this.

"I'm fine, Sam," stressed Dean as Sam appeared to have zoned out on him. "Let's get moving."

Sam still didn't believe his brother, but Dunhill was running around upstairs with 'eat me' practically tattooed on his forehead. "I'll bring the bag in," said Sam resignedly.

Once Sam had exited the room, Dean tried to stand. His first attempt dumped him back down in the chair as red-hot daggers of pain tore through his shoulders, neck and side. Dean stifled the cry of pain that attempted to escape. _Ok,_ thought Dean, _breathe through the pain like Dad taught you and don't move your arms this time._ A second shaky attempt and Dean managed to get to his feet. His head pounded and he felt a little unsteady, but he was fairly sure he was up to carrying on.

Dean was moving around the kitchen testing his legs when Sam re-entered the kitchen, bag in hand, and dumped it onto the kitchen table. He busied himself by quickly reloading the shotgun and pocketing several vials of holy water.

"Your stuff's on the table, Dean. You'd better put it away," said Sam. Dean moved purposely to the table and gathered his belongings. Instead of putting his things back into his pockets, he dropped them with straight arms into the bag.

Sam had noticed the way Dean had been walking, noticed the way he held his body, noticed that he wasn't moving his neck and arms unless he had too. Sam's face looked pinched from worry, but he had deliberately avoided catching his brother's gaze, avoided the challenge he knew he would find there. Sam resolved that Dean would not be hurt again this night.

From above them there came the sound of a door banging shut, and the brothers heard heavy running feet along the upstairs hallway. Everything went quiet for a few seconds, and then there was a heavy bang that sent flakes of plaster falling from the kitchen ceiling. Sam went to the door between the kitchen and the hallway and shouted Dunhill's name. There was no response. The brothers strained their ears for any other noises, but there was nothing.

Sam grabbed the shotgun off the table and offered it to Dean. Dean made a move to grab the stock but stopped himself. He knew he was a jerk, but not a big enough jerk to put his brother in danger.

"You take it, Sam. I, um, I don't think I'm 100 percent yet, " said Dean, tentatively picking up one of the flashlights. "Now are you ready to go demon hunting?" he asked. Sam nodded and shouldered the bag. Dean attempted to take his usual place in the lead, but Sam quickly side-stepped in front, leaving Dean to take the rear.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **Massive thanks to Katrerina17 for being my beta, she's totally turned this into something you might like to read..

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.**

Chapter 4

Dunhill raced from the kitchen to the front door as fast as his legs could carry him. The hallway was almost pitch black. Fumbling, Dunhill reached for the doorknob and twisted it. The door wouldn't open. Dunhill looked anxiously over his shoulder; he heard two voices and saw the inert body of his cousin sprawled on the floor. He had passed a door on the left, and taking a few cautious steps back, he quietly opened the door, hoping to escape.

The stench that hit Dunhill caused him to retch. The room had some light filtering through the windows from the streetlight outside, and he could see that the only piece of furniture in the room was a sitting chair located in front of the fireplace. The room was carpeted, but it was worn through to the floorboards from the door where he was standing to the chair in the center of the room, as if that was the only place his employer walked. Dunhill was too panicked to take in any other details, and the stench was overwhelming.

Holding his breath, he entered the room and went directly to the windows. His eyes and nose now running, Dunhill tried in vain to open the windows, but it seemed that they had been painted shut. There was no way of getting out unless he broke them, and there was nothing in the room to use for that. Dunhill turned and exited the room as fast as he could, shutting the door quietly behind him. Inhaling deeply, he glanced back to the kitchen. He could hear movement; there was no escape that way. Dunhill moved to the bottom of the stairway, and looking up, saw that a low watt light bulb was burning at the very top of the stairs. Dunhill remembered that he was not alone; his employer must be upstairs, and maybe there was a telephone he could use to call for backup, or maybe even a way to escape. He moved cautiously and began to climb the stairs.

There were pictures hung at regular intervals graduating up the staircase. There was insufficient light to see the lower pictures, and Dunhill was far too intent on saving himself to pay them any attention. Had Dunhill looked, he would have seen a series of family portraits showing his employer, his wife and his child. Had Dunhill looked, he would have noticed that the pictures were yellowing and stained with age.

Dunhill reached the top of the stairs, panting, a stitch lodged in his right side. In the dim light, he could see that there were five doors: three of them located together, one at the side, and the final one at the rear of the property over the kitchen. Still breathing hard, he moved to the three doors. His hands were slick with sweat, so he wiped them on his trousers and tried the first door. It was locked. Panic rose and he moved to the next door, which was also locked. As Dunhill moved to the third door, it occurred to him that maybe his employer had locked himself in one of the rooms, having overheard the events in the kitchen, and was now too afraid to open the door or call for help. The third door was locked as well; he tapped on it lightly, wanting only the occupant to hear, but there was no response. He moved to the fourth door, his breath coming hard and fast. It was locked.

"Mr. Stevens, please open the door," Dunhill whispered urgently. There was one door left, at the far end of the hall. Dunhill hurried to the door, his footsteps falling heavy on the floor. He grabbed the knob, and to his surprise, the door was unlocked. Dunhill swung the door open, then stopped in the doorway, his mouth open at the sight before him. In the center of the room stood his employer, Joshua Stevens.

-x-

Joshua Stevens had contacted Dunhill's one-man investigation agency by telephone seven days earlier. He had told Dunhill that his daughter had been taken by a cult and that he was being blackmailed for her return. The cult had threatened to harm Laura if the police were called. Joshua Stevens had offered Dunhill a sum he could not refuse, but a very tight deadline of one week to find her. Dunhill had worked blackmail cases before, and he was aware that the time restraints were unreasonable. When he took the case, he knew that he would be able to extend the deadline; he could always manipulate his client, squeeze a little more time or money out of him.

Joshua Stevens had been so exact; he had made Dunhill go to his home and sign a contract, which he had immediately taken and placed in his jacket. Then he'd told Dunhill implicitly that he had to be back to report his findings, whatever they were, on this night. Dunhill had been given a picture of his employer's daughter, Laura Stevens; it was black and white, almost sepia in tone. Dunhill had thought at the time that his employer was too old to father a child; he looked eighty if not older, but with the invention of those little blue triangular tablets, Dunhill supposed anything was possible.

-x-

Joshua Stevens stood in front of Dunhill, naked. The light bulb in the center of the room swung back and forth, sending his employer into shadow and light. Dunhill stared at his employer's nakedness; the old man was crazy. Dunhill finally tore his eyes away and let them flit across the room.

It was bare of furniture, the old wallpaper had peeled away from the walls, and the floorboards were dusty. Painted across the walls, ceiling and floor in reddish brown were symbols Dunhill had never seen before.

Looking back at his employer, Dunhill saw that he was smiling, seemingly unembarrassed at his nakedness. Joshua Stevens's eyes had been a rheumy blue in color, but they now appeared black, and his teeth seemed to be growing with each passing second, becoming pointed. Unable to help himself, Dunhill let his eyes roam down his employer's body. Stevens's skin hung around him like he had lost weight rapidly, and was mottled with large liver spots; Dunhill couldn't help but look at his employer's shriveled genitals. Dunhill realized that a smell was emanating from Stevens, a rotting, corrupt smell.

Stevens slowly looked up, saliva dripping from his newly pointed teeth. "Time's up," he said.

Dunhill's hand was still on the doorknob, and without thought he turned and ran from the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He had only gone a few steps paces when unseen hands plucked him mid-step and hoisted him into the air. They carried him back into the room, back to his employer, and slammed him into the floorboards, sending a plume of dust into the rancid air. Winded, Dunhill lay still, fear immobilizing his brain and body.

Dunhill heard chuckling; lifting his head, he saw Joshua Stevens advancing on him, lips peeled back from his fangs. Unseen fingers plucked at Dunhill, and he watched in horror as his clothing was torn away, his hands flapping as his jacket and shirt were shredded. Invisible fingers pinched his skin, and red welts appeared as though he had been scalded. Dunhill fought his unseen enemy in silence because he was too terrified to scream. He felt dampness between his legs and knew that he had wet himself. The fingers finally stopped, and Dunhill, exhausted, flopped back onto the floor. The rank fetid smell grew stronger, and Dunhill heard a swishing noise just before he felt a tearing, prickling sensation across his stomach, followed by warmth running down his sides and pooling under his back.

Dunhill's hands clutched his stomach, touching wetness that his brain refused to acknowledge. Lifting his head, he saw his employer melting into shadow in the back of the room. Groaning with effort, Dunhill got to his knees, and standing on unsteady feet, he stumbled from the room with his hands tightly clenched to his stomach. Lurching from side to side like a drunk, he reached the top of the stairs where the light was the brightest. Looking down at himself he saw nothing but red. He felt like crying and laughing at the same time. _This must be a dream,_ he thought.

Dream or not, he didn't dare move his hands. Sweat prickled all over his body, and he felt both hot and cold as he started slowly down the stairs.

Halfway down the stairs, Dunhill let out a hysterical giggle when he saw the two men from the kitchen looking up at him, their torches illuminating the hallway. _They both look so funny,_ thought Dunhill, _looking up at me like that._ Just as suddenly as he'd started laughing, Dunhill stopped. The tall man still had the gun, and he was pointing it at Dunhill. The one behind him, the one Dunhill had hurt, was looking at him too.

Dunhill descended a few more steps. Tears had started to sting his eyes and he couldn't be bothered to stop them. His hands were pressed tightly to his stomach, but they seemed to be having difficulty staying where they were. Something seemed to be pushing against his fingers, forcing them apart. Looking at the man with the gun, Dunhill moved his hands from his stomach.

"I wasn't going to kill him," said Dunhill.

Dunhill felt a strange fluttering, bubbling sensation in his stomach. When he looked down he saw his intestines spilling into his cupped hands, shining fresh and red in the torchlight . Dunhill laughed again; his body prickled and he felt the blood draining from his head. He took two more steps downstairs, holding his intestines out in front of him as if in an offering to Sam.

"I wasn't going to kill him," Dunhill said to Sam. Sam watched as Dunhill's eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, and his body fell down the last three steps.

-x-

The demon inside Joshua Stevens was still chuckling. It was happy with his sacrifice; it liked its souls terrified when it took them. The demon was even happier because it knew it had been released. It had felt the presence of the Winchester brothers, and had been ecstatic when the older brother had been captured.

It had told Dunhill to get information, hoping that Dean's hunting talent could be useful in finding out how the bitch Laura had trapped it here. That goal had been surpassed when it had heard the incantation, and had known that soon it would move on. The demon had been trapped in this meat suit since it had possessed Stevens and slaughtered his wife; her bitch daughter had managed to escape and it had become stuck inside the house.

It was so easy to keep Stevens's heart beating, easy to feed Stevens's body. It had also been easy to find souls; there were always do-gooders and greedy people who practically fell over themselves to help a poor old man with more money than sense.

The Winchester brothers...the demon and its brethren knew all about them, knew they had both been marked. Falling silent, it listened as the brothers climbed the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **Massive thanks to katriel1987, formerly known as katerina17, for being my beta, she's done an amazing job and turned this into something you might like to read.

**ANOTHER A/N **I have been totally blown away by all your very very kind reviews, thank you so much I honestly didn't expect it, but I've loved getting every one of them ;-)

P.S I promise the next chapter will be more exiting than this one.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY: Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.**

Chapter 5

Both brothers took a step back from the bottom of the staircase as Dunhill's lifeless body fell face down onto the floor with a sickening thud. They watched in silence as Dunhill's intestines, now released, tumbled across the bottom step toward them.

"Gross," uttered Dean as the sinuous mass of innards snaked across the dirty floor and threatened to spill over their shoes. They briefly glanced at each other before Sam lowered his shotgun, squatted down on his haunches, and placed his fingertips on Dunhill's carotid artery. There was no pulse. Without standing up, Sam looked up at Dean and shook his head.

"There's nothing we can do for him now."

"Let's move him out of the way, Sam. I don't particularly want to step in that...stuff," said Dean, pointing his light at the bloody mass on the floor. "There's a room right behind us. Go check it; we'll put him in there."

Not particularly surprised by his brother's tactlessness, Sam stood and made his way down the hallway to the door on his left. He stood before the door and, with the shotgun in one hand and the flashlight tucked between his arm and body, opened it. Sam's senses were immediately assaulted by an overpowering stench that instantly made him retch. His eyes and nose watering, he staggered back from the door.

Hearing his brother's distress, Dean swung the flashlight in Sam's direction and watched in alarm as Sam reeled back from the doorway, gagging

"Sam? You ok?" shouted Dean anxiously, hurrying toward his brother. Dean quickly realized that Sam wasn't in any immediate danger when Sam covered his nose and mouth with his hands, but made no other effort to move away from the open door.

"Dude, what's that stink?" asked Dean as the putrid odor reached his nostrils.

"Don't know," Sam replied with a shrug, fighting back the bile rising in his throat.

Sam, took a few shallow breaths, wiped his eyes, and, regaining his composure, stepped into the room.

"Told you go before we came out, Sammy," Dean quipped at Sam's retreating back unable to help himself.

"Man, I think something died in here," said Sam, pushing the door open farther and ignoring his brother's remark.

Dean joined his brother at the door, his face wrinkling in disgust at the smell as he shined his light into the room. The flashlight flicked around the room, picking out the old stained armchair and threadbare track in the carpet leading from the door. Sam took a few steps into the room, and as the light swept across the farthest corners near the window, he saw what appeared to be knee-high piles of dirt heaped up against the walls.

"What is it, Sam?" Dean asked, watching his brother move further into the room.

"Stay there, Dean, keep your eyes open," ordered Sam, half-turning in his brother's directionhis light temporarily blinding Dean as it swept over his face.

Dean stood with his back against the door jamb and blinked rapidly to clear the after-image that the light had imprinted on his retinas. With one foot in the room and the other in the hallway, he watched both views intently. Sam, straining his eyes, inched closer to the mounds, his light now steady on the pile in front of him. A squelching noise came from under his feet, as if the carpet was wet, and although Sam was becoming accustomed to the stench, it seemed to renew itself and rolled over him in a fresh wave.

"Erghh," said Sam, stepping back quickly away from the pile and beginning to cough and retch again

"Sam?"

"Feces!" Sam replied in a strangled voice. "Piles of it! There must be a dog somewhere."

"I don't think we're looking at a Fido situation here," Dean responded. "Our friendly neighborhood demon doesn't appear to be house trained. Anyway, unless you're particularly interested in demon crap, let's get Mr. Sloppy off the stairs."

Sam hurried from the room as quickly as he could without actually running, and drew in a lungful of clean air as soon as he closed the door behind him. Fighting down nausea, he rested his shoulder against the side of the stairs and bent at the waist as he dry heaved. A few stomach spasms and deep breaths later, Sam wiped his streaming eyes on his shirt sleeves and pushed himself erect. Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother, the eyebrows that seemed to be able to communicate whatever Dean was thinking, indicating that they should be hunting whatever had slaughtered Dunhill.

They returned to the foot of the stairs, where more of Dunhill's glistening viscera were now on view. Dean looked down at the grisly sight and furiously wondered how he was going to help Sam move the dead weight.

"I got him," said Sam, bending at the knees. With practiced ease, he turned Dunhill onto his back, then hooked his arms under Dunhill's and began to drag him off the stairs. Sam pulled hard and the body thumped down the remaining few steps, leaving a bloody track as the innards trailed across the floor. When gravity stopped assisting, Sam struggled to move the body around the ninety-degree turn necessary to drag him down the hall. Seeing his brother struggling, Dean moved to Dunhill's feet to help.

"I said I got him," Sam said with a hint of irritation in his voice.

Ignoring Sam, Dean crouched down and grabbed Dunhill's ankles. Sam watched in frustration as Dean tried to help, heard Dean's grunt of pain as Dunhill's ankles dropped almost immediately from his hands. But Sam's stubborn brother refused to give up, and he grabbed Dunhill's ankles again. Sam renewed his efforts, and with almost superhuman strength he manhandled the body down the hallway to the door, with Dean bearing only a fraction of the weight. After few moments spent tentatively flicking with their feet, finally all of Dunhill was through the doorway and they closed the door with a sense of relief.

Sam followed Dean back to the bottom of the stairs, and again took the lead.

"Hey, who died and put you in charge?" asked Dean irritably. The moment the words left his lips, he regretted saying them. But there the words were, hanging between the brothers as though Dean had slapped Sam across the face. He really hadn't meant to react so testily, but Sam had been pretty bossy since arriving, and it was starting to piss Dean off. Sam stopped in his tracks and Dean heard his brother's sharp intake of breath and could see tenseness slam into his shoulders.

Sam whipped around to face his brother. He seriously wanted to punch the callous bastard on the nose. "What was that smart-ass remark for?" he demanded, his eyes flashing with hurt.

Dean knew he was on shaky ground. Knew he had just hurt his brother for no reason. After all, it hadn't been that long since their father had...what? Died? Sacrificed himself?

"Hey, dude," said Dean, giving Sam a broad smile. "C'mon, let's move. This demon's not gonna send itself back to hell. You go first." Dean motioned with his flashlight for Sam to go ahead, and the smile remained fixed on his face as he looked at his brother.

Dean tried to sound cheerful but he wasn't feeling that great. He felt sick and shaky, the pain in his head had settled into a constant vice-like pressure behind his eyes, and the wounds across his ribs were stinging from the layer of sweat he'd worked up moving Dunhill's body.

Maybe that was why he had made that stupid remark, because he was tired and in pain. Or maybe he was just an asshole trying to justify himself.

Sam shoot a furious look at Dean. He couldn't believe that Dean had just said that and then acted like nothing had happened. Without replying, he began to climb the stairs, studiously avoiding the bloody patches on the lower steps. The smile on Dean's face vanished the moment his brother looked away, and he followed Sam, trudging up the stairs

Sam was halfway up the creaking staircase when he suddenly stopped, turning his head sharply to the left. Dean, following closely behind, almost bumped into him.

"I thought I heard something," said Sam, alert for further noise. "Yeah, there it is again."

Dean heard it too. Very faintly, someone was begging for help. Moving quickly, Sam reached the top of the stairs; shotgun firm against his shoulder, he rapidly checked his surrounding. Four doors located in front and to the side of him were closed, and one door behind him was open, with a light showing. Sam stood with the shotgun raised, covering Dean as he quickly tried each of the four doors; all of them were locked.

"Please, help me," the voice said softly. This time they could place its origin in the lighted room behind them. Cautiously, they walked toward the open doorway. They could now hear the occupant of the room groaning weakly. From his position in front, Sam could see into the room. An old man was lying naked on the floor in the fetal position, his right arm outstretched toward Sam, his eyes pleading.

"P...p...please help," the old man gasped, tears flowing from his rheumy blue eyes. Sam lowered the shotgun, dropped the bag from his shoulder onto the floor, and entered the room, intending to move toward the old man on the floor.

"Sam, stop," said Dean, his voice low but commanding. Sam froze mid-step and half-turned, his forehead creased in puzzlement at why Dean wouldn't allow him to help the old man. Dean, still standing behind Sam, was looking at the old man on the floor with suspicion. _That voice,_ he thought; _it's the same one I heard earlier in the kitchen!_

"Help...please," the old man implored, his voice straining with emotion.

"It's him, Sam," said Dean. "That's the demon."

Sam looked hard at the old man curled up on the floor, saw his sagging skin folding around him, pustules covering his body as though he was diseased. Could Dean be mistaken? Sam had questioned Dean's decisions before, and too many times had been proven wrong; he had to trust his brother. Shouldering the gun, he pointed it at the prone figure on the floor.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Sam. The old man's arm fell to the floor with a heavy thud, and his eyes closed. Seconds passed, and Sam felt anxious; had he made the wrong decision? Unconsciously, he began to lower the shotgun barrel.

The old man on the floor stirred, then sat up with the vigor of a young man, his legs crossed like a grotesque garden gnome. He smiled at Sam. Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He held the shotgun tighter against his shoulder and aimed squarely at the heart of the vision before him.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **Massive thanks to katriel1987, formerly known as katerina17, for being my beta, she's done an amazing job and turned this into something you might like to read. Any errors are may own fault.

DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.

Chapter 6

Dean stepped into the room, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

"Who are you, you son of a bitch?" demanded Dean. The old man's head hung down as though he didn't have strength to lift it, and his shoulders shook. Suddenly a high-pitched hysterical laugh escaped his lips, surprising the brothers. The laugh stopped almost as soon as it started, and the old man looked up, his eyes totally black, and stared at the two men in front of him.

"Boys, boys...I'm so glad you're here." The demon grinned at them, showing his yellow fangs.

"Sammy, I want to thank you especially for releasing me, and Dean, thank you for the evening's entertainment," the demon said, turning its gaze from one brother to the other.

The demon sat quietly, the broad smile still fixed on its face as it looked at the men standing before it. . It could sense the confusion in Dean and decided to turn its attention to him.

"Your brother was very helpful tonight, Dean. Thanks to him I can leave this house. Thanks, Sammy," said the demon, saluting Sam, grinning and winking at the same time. Dean, all too aware of the tricks played by demons and knowing better than to engage it in conversation, remained silent. Sam stood stock still, the shotgun aimed unwaveringly at the demon's chest.

"Sammy, I thought we were friends," said the demon in a hurt voice, pointing at the shotgun. Sam knew that it was pointless to shoot; all it would do was harm the body of the old man the demon was possessing. Lowering the gun, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of holy water. Drawing back his hand, he threw the small bottle and its contents at the creature in front of him

"CHRISTO," Sam shouted. The small vial somersaulted through the air. The demon flinched, but before the vial could land, it chuckled and raised its hand, snatching the bottle out of the air mid-flight.

"Oh, dear Sammy. That really wasn't that professional, was it?" the demon said with a sneer, and placed the vial between its crossed legs.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Dean bluntly.

"Well, I don't suppose there's any harm in answering that question. I don't have a name. I am Ghoul."

Sam's fingers wrapped around a second vial of holy water and adeptly popped the lid off. The demon made a flicking motion with its hand, and Sam flew back into the wall behind him, hitting it with a sickening crunch.

"Sam!" Dean cried as Sam slid down the wall and landed in a heap. The vial dropped from Sam's fingers and spilled its precious contents onto the dirty floorboards. Sam lay stunned, the breath knocked from his body, and bright lights danced before his eyes. Sam saw Dean begin to move in his direction, but he shook his head to stop his brother, and groaning lightly, struggled shakily back to his feet. A broad grin spread across the demon's face as it heard Sam's discomfort.

The shotgun now lay halfway between Dean and Sam, and the demon was staring at Sam as if he was a chunk of prime beef.

"Hey," Dean shouted at the demon, hoping to grab its attention, but its black eyes continued to stare at Sam.

"Hey, you fugly son of a bitch," shouted Dean, moving toward the shotgun lying on the floor.

"Stay where you are, Dean, unless you want to see what your brother's insides look like," threatened the demon, finally tearing its eyes away from Sam to stare at Dean. Its smile turned into a grimace.

"So," said Dean, standing stock-still, hands raised, palms slightly upward. "What's the point in all this? What do you want?"

"What do I want? Dean, you can't possibly imagine what I want." The demon shook its head and looked at the floor. "I want to tear, I want to rip, I want to devour. I want...I want...I hunger, Dean, hunger that overrides everything else. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To hunger to the depth of your being?"

The Demon raised its head and its soulless eyes gazed at Dean.

"Oh, and Sam," it sighed. "Sammy could fill that hunger, that void." The demon turned its head back to Sam with an almost lustful grin on its face.

Sam's eyes flitted between the demon and his brother, looking for some indication of what he should do next.

"So, what we waiting for, demon boy?" Dean asked cockily as he began to approach the demon. "You wanna a piece of Winchester, here I am!" Sam couldn't believe his brother was facing down the demon. Dean had no weapon, no protection; he was offering himself. The demon rose to its feet and stood with an amused look on its face as Dean advanced.

"Dean," sighed the demon. "You really do take the prize. Do you think I don't know you're trying get my attention off your brother? You really must think I'm very stupid."

The demon waved its hand, and Dean felt himself lifted off his feet by invisible hands and thrown heavily to the floor. He cried out in agony as the jolt sent waves of molten pain spasming through the injuries to his head and body. Sam watched helplessly, unable to move, unable to call out to his brother. He willed his body to respond, but the demon was too strong, and it held him in its invisible grip. Sam watched as Dean's eyes blinked rapidly, watched as his brother, unable to move his head, looked over at him from the corner of his eyes. Then those eyes glazed over and closed as Dean succumbed to his injuries. The demon advanced on Dean's prone body. It wanted to rip him apart. It was so tempting, him just lying there, ready. But even a Ghoul, so far away from home, knew that Dean's soul belonged to the crossroads demon.

"You're beginning to annoy me, Dean. Now go away," declared the demon in frustration.

The demon made a sweeping gesture and Dean slid from the room as though he had been batted away by a giant hand. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Sam and the demon alone.

-x-

The demon walked slowly back and forth across the room in front of Sam, its eyes never leaving his face. Sam stood transfixed by the thing before him. He felt like he was being stalked by a large cat.

"Will you scream for me, Sam?" The demon asked flatly as it passed.

Sam wanted to reply. His mouth opened and closed but he couldn't seem to say anything.

"Will you scream for me, Sam?" The demon asked again in the same tone as it walked back in the opposite direction.

Sam didn't respond; he couldn't. He couldn't even drag his eyes away from the creature as each turn brought it a little closer to him.

"Will you scream for me, Sam?"

A sudden pounding on the bedroom door broke whatever spell Sam was falling under. His eyes flickered away from the demon. Sam could hear Dean's frantic shouting from outside the room. Heavy kicks shook the door on its hinges, but it remained firmly closed.

"Go to Hell!" said Sam vehemently, his eyes burning with hate.

"Ironic, but good response!" replied the demon as it continued to stalk toward Sam.

"Will you scream for me, Sam?"

Sam shuffled backward, his eyes revealing his frantic search for an escape. It wasn't long before he was backed into the corner of the room as the demon's traverse became shorter and shorter.

Sam waited for the demon to close the distance between them, to get near enough. Near enough to catch it by surprise when Sam's fist lashed out and punched it hard in the throat.

The demon staggered back, its hand to its throat. It made a repulsive gurgling noise as it tried to breathe.

Sam shot out of the corner of the room, running toward the shotgun lying on the floorboards a few steps away. With one hand holding its neck, the demon raised its other hand, slamming Sam back into the wall hard enough to cause plaster to fall away. Sam remained upright, as he was now pinned to the wall.

Bright lights exploded behind Sam's eyes when his head connected with the wall, so he didn't see the demon as it approached and grabbed his jaw in its clawlike hand.

"Mmm, delicious," said the demon, licking its lips. It pulled Sam's face down toward it. Sam struggled to pull his head back as the demon's rotten breath surged into his nose.

"Oh, yes, there's plenty of life in you, Sam," it said as it turned Sam's face from side to side, examining it. "Will you scream for me?" The demon's face pressed up against Sam's and its tongue licked across Sam's cheek. Sam's face contorted with disgust as he tried to pull away from the demon's grasp.

The demon forced Sam's head back, stretching his neck. It put its face and nose against Sam's warm neck and sniffed deeply, taking in a lungful of the young hunter's scent.

"Get your goddamn hands off me, you freak," hissed Sam as he heard the demon inhale.

The demon's fingers opened to release Sam's face. It motioned with its hand, and Sam's body was pulled from the wall and thrown onto the floor in the center of the room. Sam landed heavily on his back, forcing the air out of his lungs. Almost as soon as Sam landed, he was picked up by the invisible hands and thrown back against the wall he had been pinned to.

Sam bounced off the wall and landed on the floor, crying out in pain when his left leg bent awkwardly beneath him.

The demon threw its head back and shuddered in ecstasy. This is how it liked its prey: scared, in pain, tenderized.

Sam's fingers clenched tightly around a vial. In the brief seconds when he had been thrown into the center of the room, he had seen it and had grabbed it. The demon, temporarily distracted by its bloodlust, didn't see Sam flick the top off the vial, didn't see the holy water coming. The water hit the demon square in the chest and blossomed over its skin. The demon screamed as the water burned into it like acid, and vapor leaked from its skin where the water had touched.

Distracted, the demon let its control slip, and the door flew open as Dean kicked it. Dean almost fell into the room, but managed to steady himself.

Sam lunged for the shotgun and in one swift movement aimed it at the demon's chest and pulled the trigger. The cartridge exploded from the barrel, the resultant flash far brighter than the dim light. The rock salt impacted the demon's chest, shattering its ribs and collapsing its lungs.

The demon closed its black eyes and fell stiffly to the ground. Instantly, the air pressure around the brothers increased so intensely that they both put their hands over their ears. There was a deafening sound, as though hundreds of trains had simultaneously blown their whistles. The room began to shake violently and the door slammed shut. Almost as quickly as the cacophony had begun, all was quiet.

Sam looked at the body on the floor; its eyes appeared normal, appeared human. There was an oh-so-brief flicker of realization as the old man's body fell back onto the floor and began to shake violently. His heels pounded on the floor as if he was having a fit, and a stream of black particles vomited from his open mouth.

-x-

Laura watched from behind the grill in the kitchen as Black stirred, gingerly reaching up to touch his shattered nose.

"Shit," said Black thickly as he struggled to his feet, his hand cupping his bleeding nose. Laura watched as Black staggered over to the sink and took a mouthful of water. Black swirled the water around his mouth and spat a wad of blood into the sink, watching as the clot swirled around the drain. Turning away from the sink, Black bent down and grabbed something from the floor. Laura couldn't see what it was until he stood up. It was Dunhill's handgun.

There was a noise from upstairs, the sound of a struggle. Black looked up, stared briefly at the ceiling, then turned and walked briskly into the hallway, gun in hand. He had only taken a couple of steps when he felt a disturbance in the air around him, like a cold breeze but somehow more tangible. Two more steps, and every hair on Black's body began to stand on end. It was much more than a breeze; something was coming. From out of the gloom a swirling, pulsating darkness headed straight for Black. Black turned and ran back toward the kitchen, but he was too slow; the darkness was all around him. He opened his mouth to scream. Instantly the darkness filled his throat and Black was gone.

Laura was surprised to see Black come back into the kitchen several seconds later. He looked funny; he was humming a tune and smiling. Laura watched as he went over to a drawer opposite the sink, rummaged through it for a couple of moments, and then brought out a tin and a box of matches.

Black went back out into the hallway. Laura could still hear him humming and occasionally letting out a high-pitched giggle. She watched as he walked backwards into the kitchen. The arm that held the tin was moving around in circles, and liquid splattered the floor and walls. Black stopped, threw the tin into the hall, and took out the matches. Using one to light the box, he threw it out into the hallway. A plume of flames instantly erupted.

Black turned and headed toward the back door. For a heartbeat he paused, as though expecting to be stopped, and then he stepped through the doorway and vanished into the night.

Laura watched in horror as the flames grew in the hallway. She knew she had to escape, but she couldn't seem to move. Laura tried to open her mouth to scream for help, but she couldn't do that either. She tried to move her head to see what was holding her, but again she seemed to be frozen. All she could do was watch as the flames grew stronger and headed towards her.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **Massive thanks again to katriel1987, formerly known as katerina17, for being my beta, she's done an amazing job and turned this into something you might actually like to read. Any mistakes are my own.

**AND ANOTHER A/N. **Thank you all for your fantastic reviews so far and for making one old fan-girl very happy.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.**

Chapter 7

Dean moved cautiously toward the old man's still form. He didn't appear to be breathing.

"He's gone," said Dean flatly. "From the look of him, he probably would've been dead years ago if he hadn't been possessed."

Dean's eyes flicked quickly over the corpse on the floor, his nose wrinkling at the smell. The body already appeared to be decaying.

"You ok?" Dean asked his brother, noting Sam's disheveled appearance, his limp as he moved to stand opposite him.

"Yeah, think so," said Sam as he hobbled around, trying to breathe life into his dead leg.

Dean watched his brother closely, making sure he was really ok.

"What did it mean when it said you'd been helpful, Sam?" Asked Dean with a quizzical look on his face.

"Bobby told me that the demon was trapped here and I had to perform an unbinding incantation. If you'd waited outside like I asked you, you would have known," responded Sam angrily. Dean's question had pissed him off, considering how worried he'd been about him, and that he'd saved his ass in the kitchen. Sam drew in a deep breath as the memory of his brother being strangled filled his mind.

"Hey, what's crawled up and died?" Asked Dean blithely. "Dude, relax." He threw a half-grin at his brother, hoping to relieve the tension that seemed to be building.

Dean's efforts to get back into the room hadn't exactly helped his headache, which had turned from a dull pounding into a full Black Sabbath concert. And now that he seemed to be having difficulty standing still, he really didn't want to get into a full argument with Sam.

_There it is again, that cocky tone in Dean's voice,_ thought Sam.

"No, Dean, I won't relax. When you came into this house on your own tonight, you put both of us in danger." Sam glared at his brother, his finger stabbing in Dean's direction. Sam had intended to say that he was pleased his brother was ok. Yeah, he was angry with Dean for scaring him, but glad that they'd managed to survive. Sam knew that if he'd been the one who had entered the building unprepared, Dean would have kicked his ass for a week.

"What do you mean? It wasn't like I had any choice..." Dean began defensively, unconsciously taking a few steps back from his brother.

"Of course you had a choice, but no, as usual you have to be the hero. What were you going to do, Dean, save everyone with your clever one-liners? You know, it wasn't that long ago that you called me a selfish bastard. Well, maybe you're right, and if I am, I learned from the master." Sam glowered at Dean, unable to stop his frustration from bubbling over.

Dean was stunned by the furiousness of Sam's words, but Sam wasn't finished.

"There's a man lying dead downstairs right now who should be going home to his family, not to the morgue." Sam's lips were pursed together so tightly that they were almost white, his right hand roughly indicating in the direction where Dunhill's body lay downstairs.

"Hey, now, wait a minute," said Dean, beginning to get angry. "It's not like I killed him!" Dean was about to point out that it had been his neck on the chopping block when Sam interrupted.

"No, but you didn't save him either." Sam's eyes flashed darkly. Sam knew that was unfair; they were a team and he'd just dumped the blame totally on Dean, but at that moment, he didn't care.

Dean's body jerked involuntarily as Sam's words struck a raw nerve. _Who did Sam mean by that, Dunhill or Dad?_ Thought Dean uneasily. _No, surely he couldn't have meant Dad._

"Sam, I..."

"Stow it, Dean. Whatever you've got to say, I'm not interested." Sam turned his back on Dean and headed toward the door to leave, his back stiff, his limp almost gone.

Dean's shoulders slumped; he felt old and defeated. He moved his hand to the wounds over his ribs; he knew they were still there, as they throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Dean pressed his palm lightly over the wound, felt a flash of pain shoot through his core that seemed to shake him out of his remorse.

"Sam...Sammy, I'm...you're right, I could have waited," said Dean apologetically. He knew that his bother was right; maybe Dunhill could have been saved if he hadn't been so impatient, if he hadn't been such a freakin' jerk. Dean knew his brother deserved a proper apology, but it wouldn't come out. Sam still had his back to Dean, but he had stopped.

"And I didn't walk into this house tonight," said Dean quickly. "I got thrown in and then bounced off the walls!" Dean took a deep breath as the room began to spin. Staring at his brother's back, he willed him to turn around.

Sam sighed; he knew his brother would try to talk him around, make him feel guilty for daring to question him. He was still angry. Turning around to face Dean down again, Sam noticed that his face was paler than before and he was swaying and clutching his ribs.

"Dean, are you ok?" asked Sam, instantly forgetting his earlier anger.

Dean's vision swam alarmingly and his knees threatened to buckle. He bent over, hands on his knees and head down, trying not to vomit. The pain in his neck temporarily acquiesced to his other injuries.

"Sam," said Dean, reaching a hand his brother's direction. Sam was instantly at Dean's side, helping him to stand upright.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Sam anxiously, still supporting his brother.

"Think it's a concussion. Got a bash on the back of the head earlier and was out for a couple of minutes," replied Dean almost breathlessly.

"Why didn't you say anything? Let me see." Sam reached up to touch the back of Dean's head.

"Don't...owww, man!" exclaimed Dean as Sam's fingers pressed into the tender lump on the back of his head.

"Sorry."

"Just help me onto the floor for a couple of minutes, Florence."

Supporting Dean with his arms, Sam helped him over to the wall and onto the floor. Looking down at his brother, Sam had to admit that Dean looked pretty ropey, actually far worse than he'd looked when Sam had first arrived. They'd both had their fair share of cuts, bruises and knocks to the head. Concussions were fairly serious, but Dean had confirmed he'd only been unconscious for a couple of minutes. Sam knew there was no way he was going to get Dean to go to the hospital, and hoped that Bobby or Ellen would be able to help if necessary

"Sam!" Said Dean, raising his eyes up to Sam. He looked worried. "The floor...it's really warm."

"Yeah?" Sam looked nonplussed.

"Feel it, Sam."

Sam bent down, putting his hand flat onto the floorboards. They weren't just warm; they were almost hot.

-x-

Sam strode to the door, placed the palm of his hand against it for a moment, and then tentatively pulled it open. Immediately a plume of acrid black smoke roiled into the room. Sam slammed the door shut and, without pausing to look at his brother, rushed to the window at the back of the room. Dean struggled to his feet, using the wall to steady himself, adrenaline temporarily over-riding the effects of the concussion and neck injury.

"Think you can manage a four-meter jump?" asked Sam, raising the butt of the shotgun to break the window.

"Jump?" Asked Dean disbelievingly. "That's more of a fall in my book. Hold on, there's a balcony at the front of the house, and I'm pretty sure there's some kind of trellis too. I'd rather take my chances climbing down that, if we can still get to the room."

"C'mon," said Sam, moving quickly to Dean's side. "Keep low."

Sam again placed his palm against the door, and, satisfied that at least the flames were not outside the door, pulled it open. Once again, the plume of smoke entered the room, and Sam's eyes stung from the fumes. The smoke was so thick that Sam could barely see more than a few steps in front of him. He couldn't see the flames, but he could hear their crackle and feel their heat. Shotgun again stowed in the crook of his arm, he turned on his light, but it hardly made an impression in the dense smoke.

Sam grabbed Dean with his free hand and supported him as best he could as they moved out into the hallway. Hardly breaking his stride, Sam instinctively grabbed the bag he had dropped outside the door earlier; he could no more forget that than he could forget to blink or breathe. With a smooth motion, he hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

"C'mon, Dean," urged Sam when he felt Dean stumble as they headed toward the front of the house. Sam didn't dare move his shoulder away from the wall it was scraping against; if he lost his bearings, they could both end up falling down the stairs. There was a ridge and then a depression against his shoulder; it was a doorway. Sam was disoriented, and almost panicked before he remembered that this was the door at the side of the hallway, not the one he was aiming for. They were about halfway to the rooms at the front. Sam heard Dean coughing, each time drawing in a big lungful of harmful smoke. Before he could tell his brother to try not to cough, Sam too was coughing. Half-dragging his brother now, Sam almost walked into the wall at the end of the hallway.

"Stay here," Sam managed to say between hacking coughs, and pushed Dean into the corner. Sam fervently felt with his free hand for one of the three doorways he knew to be in front of him. Finally Sam's hand grasped a doorknob and he twisted it furiously. Damn it, Sam had forgotten that all the other doors up here were locked. Taking two steps back, Sam kicked the door open without hesitation. It flew back on its hinges, and would have slammed shut again if Sam hadn't put his foot into the doorway. Checking, Sam could hear Dean's labored breathing as he entered the room.

It was easier to breathe in the room, but it was rapidly filling with smoke as Sam hurried toward the window. Halfway across the floor, Sam stumbled on something underfoot. When he tried to compensate with his other foot, that too skittered across whatever was littering the floor. Finally, Sam made it over to the window without falling. There was no balcony. Sam pressed his face against the glass, his breath fogging the pane in front of him. He quickly wiped the glass clear and peered to his right; he could just make out the wrought iron of a balcony that must be attached the room farthest away.

Head down, Sam moved to exit the room as quickly as he could. This time, though, he peered through the gloom at whatever was littering the center of the room. Without breaking his stride, he could just make out a large pile of sticks. When he moved a little closer, his light showed the sticks to be bleached white bones...a lot of bleached white bones.

Sam moved back into the hallway, where the smoke was now so dense he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He could see licks of orange flame shooting up the staircase behind him, cutting off the room at the back of the house. Sam dropped his light; it was practically useless now.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was barely a whisper. He didn't hear a response. Fighting the urge to panic, Sam moved the few steps back to the corner, hands in front of him. He soon felt the familiar texture of Dean's old leather jacket. On unsteady legs, Sam pulled Dean from the wall toward the farthest door. Again, he put his hand against the wall, ignored the middle door, headed to the last door, took two steps back and kicked.

Sam pulled Dean into the room. By now Dean was hardly able to stand unaided.

"C'mon Dean, help me, man," said Sam, finding his voice again, thanks to the small amount of fresh oxygen trapped in the room.

Dean heard Sam talking, but he couldn't make out what the words meant. He tried to place one foot in front of the other, but he seemed to be making a mess of it, staggering side to side like a drunk.

Sam could now make out the vague outline of the wrought iron banister outside the window.

They would soon be out.

They were almost to the window when, with a ghastly groan, the floor disappeared from beneath their feet. In a flurry of rotten wood and plaster, Sam and Dean plummeted through the floor into the room below.

-x-

Ceiling debris showered down on the living room, falling in chunks into the corners of the room. After a few seconds, all was silent. Dean, winded in the fall, drew in a lungful of hot but cleaner air and instantly began to cough. He tried to stand, but his body failed to respond.

"Sam, where are you?" Dean croaked, but it was almost inaudible with the roar of the fire immediately outside the door. Ignoring the pain in his shoulders, Dean reached his hands outward amongst the rubble on the floor, feeling for Sam. Under the plaster and slats, Dean felt material ... clothing.

"Sam," choked Dean, panic rising. With his remaining strength, Dean turned himself onto his side, facing whatever was under the rubble.

Scrabbling desperately with one hand, he pushed back the debris. Dean touched something warm, something that moved slightly as he pulled. His hand closed over skin, a wrist, his brother's wrist, and he tugged hard. Something gave way and Dean pulled Sam's hand into view.

"Sam, oh God, Sam please," Dean cried, shaking Sam's hand.

Dean pulled with all his strength, but he couldn't move his brother. He couldn't save Sam; he couldn't even save himself. Cold resignation washed over him, and calmly he thought, _Just me, not_ _Sam, he didn't deserve this, just me, just me._

The noise of the flames became muffled, and Dean felt his skin prickle as the blood rushed to his vital organs. Darkness grew across his vision, and he knew he was about to pass out.

"I'm sorry Sam," he muttered, and started to roll back, his hand still tightly gripping Sam's wrist.

Dean's last thought before he fell unconscious was to wonder who the hell had just grabbed hold of his jacket.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N **Massive thanks for the last time to katriel1987, formerly known as katerina17, for being my beta, she's done an absolutely amazing job and turned this into something you might actually like to read. Any mistakes are my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY: Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.**

Chapter 8

"Wake up."

The voice pulled Dean reluctantly from the darkness of sleep. Dean wasn't sure if he was dreaming. It was dark and warm, and there was a comforting, familiar mechanical drone that was almost hypnotic.

"Dean, wake up."

A feeling of déjà vu overtook Dean. _Oh man, is this ever gonna end!_ He thought as his eyes snapped open and he came instantly alert.

"Dean. Come on, man, you're drooling," said Sam, a grin playing across his lips. The grin broadened when he saw his brother's eyes open to look at him. Sam breathed an inward sigh of relief. He'd been trying to coax Dean back to consciousness for the past fifteen minutes.

"Goddamn it, Sam," growled Dean, scowling at his brother. Without thinking, he wiped his hand across his chin. "Can't a man just rest his eyes?"

"Nice to see you too," Sam responded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he drove the Impala at a steady pace. Actually, at that moment Dean wasn't very nice to look at; the pale green illumination from the dashboard probably didn't help. Dried blood and plaster covered Dean's face, and two beautiful bruises were in full bloom over his temple and chin. Sam caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror; he didn't look much better if he was honest with himself. Minus the dried blood, he too was covered in plaster. Sam couldn't tell whether the paleness of his skin was due to the plaster, or the shock of almost loosing his brother. Plus he had taken a nasty crack to the ribs as he had fallen through the floor.

Dean groaned as he hitched himself around in his seat to sit upright. He had awakened in a slumped position facing his brother, and his neck had stiffened uncomfortably. His other aches and pains woke up to remind him they also needed his attention, but they were by no means as intense as earlier. His head still hurt, but a couple of painkillers and some rest would sort out all his physical problems.

Sam shot a furtive look at his brother as he heard him groan. Sam knew how much Dean hated it when he did that, but he did it anyway. Dean, seemingly preoccupied with the view out of the side window, didn't respond.

Sam gave a deliberate cough and let his eyes slide in his brother's direction, this time with a more obvious move of his head.

Still there was no response.

It was almost dawn, and Dean stared out the passenger window, watching the small patches of light thrown by the headlights on the edge of the road. He tried hard not to think about the night's events, the things that had been said. Unconsciously, he moved his right hand to his mouth and began to bite his fingernails.

Sam saw the small movement from the corner of his eye. _Oh man, _he thought miserably. _I did that, I'm responsible._ Sam unconsciously took his right hand from the steering wheel to rub it over his face. The last time had Dean bit his nails had followed an unpleasant conversation they'd had in a field just outside Medford, Wisconsin, where they'd taken down a Rakshasa.

A conversation where Sam had pushed Dean too far, said too much, like tonight. And now Dean had retreated into himself.

_C'mon, Dean, talk to me. I need to let you know that I didn't mean all that stuff. I was scared for you._

Sam cleared his throat. "Dean, I..."

_When you didn't move, Dean, I thought you were dead._

"Thanks for getting me out of there," Dean interrupted, his voice faltering slightly as he spoke, but he still gazed resolutely outside instead of looking at Sam.

_I can't deal with this now, Sam, please._

"I just smashed a window and pulled you out, it's no biggie," said Sam matter-of-factly, and glanced over at his brother. "You know that was Dunhill's body you were trying to move?"

_I know you thought it was me, Dean. I heard you call my name, and I had to pry your fingers from Dunhill's wrist before I could move you._

Dean gave a non-committal grunt. He couldn't trust his voice not to crack if he told Sam he'd thought it was him under the rubble.

_I thought it was over, Sam. I thought you were dead._

Dean turned his face forward to look out of the windshield. He shoot a look at Sam to remind himself what he looked like. It wasn't that Dean had forgotten how his brother looked; he was looking to make sure Sam was still there, still safe.

Sam felt his brother's gaze, and for a fleeting moment managed to lock eyes with him before Dean broke contact.

"Where we going?" asked Dean as soon as he knew his voice was stable.

"We'll stay with Bobby for a few days while you get back on your feet," replied Sam, relieved to be conversing at some level with his brother.

"What did Bobby say?"

"Well, the old guy's name was Joshua Stevens. The information is a bit sketchy about his history, but his wife and child went missing fifty-odd years ago. Other than that, it was the usual stuff: Ghouls possess the living, eat the dead, yada, yada, yada. Bobby still hasn't been able to find out how it got trapped in that house." Sam paused and glanced again at his brother, who had a perplexed expression on his face.

Thinking Dean was confused, Sam continued. "The thing that possessed Stevens must have been slaughtering people for food for years, used all sorts of tricks to get its victims into that house. Dunhill was a PI, so he was probably hired and fed some tall tale, but he was just a victim, like the others," Sam said with a snort. Dean still hadn't responded.

"What's up, Dean?" asked Sam, keeping his voice neutral. He wasn't sure whether Dean was sick or being a pain in the ass.

"Nothing," responded Dean hesitantly. "When I asked what Bobby said, I meant about me screwing everything up tonight?"

Sam bit his bottom lip. He'd said some harsh things to Dean earlier, things he now regretted saying. It nevertheless surprised him that Dean thought he would have told Bobby.

"Hey, we don't answer to Bobby, right?" Sam shot Dean a lopsided grin, then quickly changed the subject by asking, "So, what was Dunhill asking you?"

"He wanted to know where Laura Stevens was." Dean sat back in his seat. His relief that Sam had not told Bobby was almost tangible. "I think the demon told Dunhill that I'd kidnapped her."

"Laura? That was the name of Stevens' daughter," stated Sam, glancing at Dean, who still looked mildly puzzled.

"So what're you thinking?" asked Dean. "'Cause that demon seemed to be getting a woody when Dunhill was torturing me for information."

"Dunno for sure, but maybe it thought it could use you to find Laura somehow."

"So, what? You think Laura's still there, in the house? Stopping the demon from getting out?" asked Dean, intently watching Sam's profile.

"Well, if she was, I ruined that when I did the unbinding incantation," said Sam. He paused for a few moments. He couldn't stop the jumble of thoughts that sprang into his head: that he had been responsible for Dean's torture, that he had released the demon and now it was free.

Dean saw the frown appear on Sam's forehead and knew he was in turmoil. "Hey, Sam," he said gruffly, and waited until Sam glanced in his direction. "You did what you had to do, buddy. We'll hunt down the freak, if it's the last thing we do."

Sam's heart gave an unpleasant twinge at Dean's words. _Damn it,_ thought Sam. _Damn you. _Sam's eyes smarted the instant the thought flitted across his mind. _This is tearing me apart, Dean. You're going to leave me, and I can't go on, not without you. _ Unable to speak, he nodded in agreement with Dean's statement.

Both brothers stared ahead, and the silence bore down heavily on both of them.

"So, when the demon trapped you in the room...it didn't hurt you?" asked Dean, turning to look directly at Sam.

Sam took a deep breath. "No, not really, it got its rocks off by scaring me."

"You're not telling me it just wanted to scare you, because I don't believe you," he said, his eyes wide as if he was trying to peer into Sam's soul.

Sam glanced over to meet Dean's penetrating stare and knew it was no use trying to cover up how close he'd come to losing his life. He hesitated, knowing the potential damage his answer would cause Dean.

"No, not just scared. It was going to kill me, Dean," said Sam, then quickly added, "And would have if you hadn't been pounding on the door."

There was an uncomfortable silence where neither of the brothers spoke.

Dean turned away. Sam hadn't said that to him in the bedroom, when he would have been justified in doing so. Dean's breath caught in his throat and he turned his head to gaze out the passenger window at the countryside rolling past, lit by pink streaks of pre-dawn light. He regretted that he had failed to save Dunhill, but failing Sam hurt worst of all. Dean knew Sam had been right when they had argued back at the house. He also knew that a line had to be drawn. So, he wouldn't discuss it with Sam againfor Sam's sake and his own. If that made him a selfish bastard, then so be it.

-x-

"GODDAMN IT," shouted Dean, breaking the silence as he shot forward in his seat. Sam stood on the brakes, and with tires smoking, the car fishtailed to a stop in the middle of the road.

"What?" shouted Sam almost as loudly, his hand on the door handle, ready to leap out the car. Panic covered his features as he gaped at his brother, who had sat forward in his seat and was now frantically struggling to pull off his leather jacket, grunting in pain at his vigorous movements.

"For God's sake, Dean, what's wrong?" Sam let go of the door handle and attempted to grab hold of his brother, who seemed to be having some kind of fit.

"What do you think you're doing?" Asked Dean, instantly stopping his struggle to give Sam his _'you called it what'_ look.

"I wanna hold your hand, Dean," Sam said sarcastically. "Man, I thought you were having a fit or something! What's with the Houdini stuff?"

"Dude, he shot me!" exclaimed Dean, with a look of anxiousness covering his battered face.

"Yeah, you said it was just a scratch," said Sam, his heartbeat thumping almost painfully in his chest. _Not again,_ thought Sam desperately. _What have I missed?_

"It's my jacket!" exclaimed Dean as he again struggled to get out of it.

"Yes...it's your jacket," said Sam, trying to humor his brother, because clearly the bash on the head had scrambled Dean's brain cells.

Dean finally managed to shrug the jacket off his shoulders, and peeling it off, he held it up against the lightening sky, feverishly turning it in his hands, looking at it from all angles.

"It's yours, Dean," Sam said soothingly, trying to calm Dean down.

"TWICE!" Dean shouted, a look of horror spreading across his face as he stared at the jacket.

"Dean, you're scaring me."

"Oh crap, look!" Outraged, Dean held up his jacket to show Sam two small holes in its side along the seam.

"Man, you scared the s…"

"And my favorite t-shirt!" Dean interrupted Sam, showing him the rips across the front and the side. Dean pulled the t-shirt away from the wounds on his side, grimacing as it stuck slightly.

"Do you think they'll scar?" asked Dean, showing Sam the gashes along his side.

"Yeah," said Sam, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"Great. Chicks dig scars," Dean said, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. "You hungry?"

-x-

Epilogue

Dr Walter Stafford's eyes were red-rimmed and sore. He glanced up from the box of bones for the umpteenth time that evening to sweep the room. Walter bit his bottom lip and returned to his report, focusing his mind on completing the assessment. He was unusually keen to leave.

Tonight, Walter took the bone and tooth samples himself. When he'd finished, he put the child's bones back in the small box and placed it gently in the storage area. He put the samples he had just taken in the evelopes for their respective departments, and spent a few minutes tidying up the room, getting it ready for the next day.

Putting on his overcoat, Walter realized he was, as usual, the last to leave. He stopped at the examination room door and paused before clicking off the lights. A shiver ran down his neck and back, and he turned to double-check the room. Everything was as it should be, but lately he just couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he was being watched. _Maybe I need a break_, thought Walter. With a sigh and a flick of his finger, he extinguished the lights and gently closed the door behind him.

The End

**So, thats it. My first attempt at Fanfic. I hope I didn't disappoint too many of you with the ending. I've picked up a lot of hints and tips on the way so hopefully the next one will be better. And will, for sure contain much more whumpage. I liked writing those bits for some reason!!**

**I quite liked the freaky demon too, and, it did seem to take a special shine to Sam. So maybe... Wendy xx**


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